The Difference
by Tubular Fox
Summary: And in truth, behind the smile and the gentle flirt, he is a dangerous man.


This was written for my sister, who wanted a serious fic about Eames. I'm not quite sure it came out how I wanted, but she was pleased. So, please, enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Athur, Eames, or Inception. :)

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_You're dead. You're dead when they catch you, _their eyes whisper to him as he steps over their bodies. Through careful practice, he avoids the steadily growing stains of dark that spread over the carpet.

This is not the first time he's killed someone.

Gloves on, he gently lifts the painting from its wire wall hook and steps back. His employer contracted him to get this painting, by any means possible. And he has.

He turns, and the dead eyes of the four hired hitmen stare accusingly back at him. He pays them no attention, though killing them is not usually how he does things. This is _not_ the first time he's killed someone.

He is lucky that they will never catch him.

-ooo-

"Oh come off it, darling," he laughs, and tugs at the elbow of Arthur's suit until Arthur shakes him off. "I was only kidding. You _do_ know what a joke is, right? If only in theory?"

And Arthur glares, but Cobb hides a smile and Ariadne covers her laugh with a cough.

"Very funny, Mr. Eames," Arthur deadpans, and turns back to the whiteboard. "Now, does anyone have any ideas on how to accomplish this that _don't_ involve me without my clothes?"

"Spoilsport," Eames grumbles playfully, and then offers the plan they end up taking.

-ooo-

He has no friends.

He has only acquaintances, and in some cases, accomplices. He has no constant team, no obvious family, and many, many secrets.

He has four guns concealed on his person.

-ooo-

They go home together, though no one knows. This house—they own it together. It's an odd thought, but it's true. They own this house together, but they are rarely ever in it, at the same time or at all.

He throws his coat over the back of a chair while Arthur hangs his up.

"Darling," he says, pulling Arthur into his arms and kissing his temple, "it's nice to be here with you."

And Arthur smiles slightly, fondly, and turns his head to regard Eames. "What's gotten you so sentimental all of a sudden?" he asks, leaning his cheek against Eames's. "Not planning something stupid, are you?"

"No, no, of course not, pet," Eames says, and ducks his face against Arthur's neck. "It's just that I'm leaving soon, and I don't know when we'll see each other again."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Arthur replies. "We have a way of running into each other."

-ooo-

"Now, Mr. Morsten," the man says. "Richard. Surely we can come to some sort of agreement?"

They face each other across the table, hands lazily holding cards that neither man really cares about anymore. The pot is bigger than just chips.

"No, I don't think we can," Eames answers with a tilt of his lips. "Because, you see, I have nothing to gain from this arrangement that I can't get elsewhere, where as you stand to lose…quite a bit should I decide not to join you."

And his potential client frowns, for just a split second, and then his own lips turn up at the corners.

"You think you have nothing to lose, Mr. Morsten?" He raises a hand to signal the dealer to set an open phone on the table. "Everyone here, then, gentlemen?"

"Yes, sir," two voices reply, on a three-way call, and Eames watches the phone warily.

"I think you may have…_quite a bit_ to lose, Mr. Morsten. You are a very hard man to blackmail—too careful, I suppose—but this time you've slipped. I do believe that there is a man in France that you are especially fond of, no? You wouldn't want anything to _happen_ to him, would you?"

And the client reaches out a hand to sweep up the pot.

Suddenly, the dagger that was lying in Eames's hand under the table is embedded in the smooth green cloth between the client's fingers, stopping him at the flop. There is a thin line of blood where it carefully nicked the webbing.

"It's your call," Eames says amiably, sitting back in his chair. "I've already told you: this hand doesn't matter to me. There is no one I care about."

The client's eyes widen slightly as he snatches his hand back. Then his mouth thins and he smiles unpleasantly at Eames.

"All right, then, Mr. Morsten. I assure you, I am not bluffing." He lays down his cards and then folds his hands on top of them. "Flush. I win. Do it."

The shot rings out from the phone as the sniper pulls the trigger, and the man on the ground confirms the kill as in the background, a woman screams.

"_Non! Oh, non! Au secours! Au secours, s'il-vous plait! Oh, Dieu, Ar—"_

The client snaps the phone shut.

"And so, Mr. Morsten, do we have a deal?" He reaches for the pot again, this time wary of the knife flipping in Eames's hand.

"No, because you see, my reasoning still stands. I have nothing to lose, and nothing to gain besides this pot." Eames grins and lays down his cards. "Royal flush." He sweeps up the piles of chips and stands. "Good evening, gents."

-ooo-

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

"Pick up, darling, pick up," Eames mutters desperately, shoulder holding the phone to his ear as he checks the clip of his gun. His totem is hot in his pocket, like it's on fire, but no matter how many times he tries the empty lighter wont light. If Arthur doesn't pick up, God help him—he'll go back in there and kill every damn person in that casino.

Four times.

It's all his fault. He should have just taken the job. But he couldn't show weakness to anyone, or that would put Arthur in even _more_ danger. Not that it mattered now.

Five times.

"_You've reached Arth—"_

"Fuck," Eames breaths, and snaps the cartridge into his gun. He grabs the phone and moves to turn it off.

"—_Leave a mess—Hello?"_

"Hello? Arthur?" Eames demands. His heart has lodged itself somewhere in his throat, and he finds it hard to breathe properly around it.

"_No, this is—"_

"Yes, I know it's you, Cobb! Where is Arthur? Give him the phone! It's _his bloody phone!_"

"_Calm down!_" Cobb snaps. _"Arthur can't answer right now. He's out—"_

"And he _left his phone_ with you?" Eames is pulling at his hair in his agitation, wondering how Arthur could be so _bloody stupid_ as to leave his phone when he went out.

"_He got called out in a hurry. Some kind of family thing, I think. He dropped his phone on the desk when he grabbed his coat, and he never picked it back up. The woman at the door was pretty anxious to leave—"_

"Woman?" Eames barked. Family emergency? Shit, because the woman on the phone before had sounded like Arthur's sister.

"_Yeah, but I don't think Arthur is cheating on you. He left about fifteen minutes ago, arguing with her in French. I wasn't close enough to hear what they were saying, though."_

Eames's heart turns cold and solid, and he thumbs the safety off.

"Thank you, Cobb. I have some business to deal with, now, but before I do: what part of France are you in?"

He wants to know how long it will take him to get there from his present location to…claim Arthur's body.

"_France?"_ Cobb asks, confused, and Eames's mental imaging of the inside of the casino grinds to a sudden halt. _"We're not in France. We just finished a job in Singapore."_

"Singapo—Oh thank God." Eames takes a few steps into the alleyway next to the casino where he promptly sags against the wall in relief. "You're not in France."

"_No,"_ Cobb says. _"Now, do you want to tell me what this is about?_"

"Not particularly, no," Eames answers. "Thank you for asking, though," he says, and the cheekiness in his voice is made all the more easy to pull of with the weight of his uncertainty gone. "I never knew you cared."

"_I'm more concerned about who that woman was and how she found us so easily,"_ Cobb replies, irritable.

"Was she blonde, kind of petite, and dressed rather unprofessionally?" Eames asks. "If so, then that's Arthur's sister. She finds people for a living. I wouldn't be too worried about it."

Cobb sighs, and Eames rechecks the date in his mind, trying to see if the family emergency might have been a long time coming. The only thing he can think of is—

"Cobb, I'll have to call you back later," he says, and he's already exiting the alley smoothly, hailing a cab, and making his way away from the lucky bastards in the casino, who should be glad that their hard-won information was false.

"_What? Are you coming out to—"_

"Singapore? No. I'm heading out to meet Arthur. I'll let him know that you have his phone when I get there, though," and his grin is as obvious in his voice as Cobb's confusion.

"_You know where he is?" _Now, Cobb just sounds exasperated.

"Yes, I do, in fact. And no wonder he left in such a hurry. Good Lord, Cobb, I'm going to be an uncle!"

-ooo-

The man's mental security is no match for him, not after Fischer. They are even easier to dispatch then the team of guards the mark hired in the real world to protect him. They were child's play.

The disguise he wears comes easily to him: a nameless mafia boss that will distract the mark long enough for his extractor to get the information they came for. The poison in his smile is not faked, and the ice in his eye is no trick.

Sometimes it is easiest to let your life show on your face.

He ends up having to deal with twenty of the mark's projections on his own, and he does. Easily. The building explodes behind him as the dream collapses.

-ooo-

"Oh, bloody _Nora_. She's _adorable._" The child is small in his hands as he takes her from Arthur, her pink blanket wrapped securely around her tiny frame. "What's her name?"

Arthur's sister, Michelle, smiles tiredly, but the joy behind it is blinding. "Helena," she answers. "Helena Beth."

Eames makes a small noise in the back of his throat when Helena manages to worm her hand out of her cocoon and take his finger. He is already enamored.

"How does it feel to be an uncle, Eames?" asks Arthur's other sister, Jenny, the blonde who came to pick Arthur up in Singapore. The argument they had, it turns out, was about why Arthur was in Singapore to _begin_ with. Didn't he remember what day it was?

"It feels bloody amazing," he breathes, eyes still glued to the infant's face. "Arty, darling, let's have children."

He looks up in time to see Arthur blush.

"You, pet, are going to have all the boys wrapped around your little finger when you're older," he sighs, stroking Helena's soft cheek. "But if any of them try anything, you just give me a call, and I'll head right out and take care of them."

Michelle laughs and takes the baby back from a reluctant Eames.

"You're a dangerous man, for sure, Mr. Eames," she says.

-ooo-

He has killed forty people to date.

He has no family, no lovers, and no attachments.

He has seventeen aliases, and the ability to create new ones in a simple matter of hours, maybe less.

He has no permanent address.

He has four guns concealed on his person, and three knives.

He has many, many secrets.

He _is_ a dangerous man.

-ooo-

He has saved the lives of many people through the information he steals.

He had a mother, a husband, a large family and a new niece back in South Carolina, waiting to welcome him home with open arms.

His first name is James.

He owns a house in France with his husband Arthur, where they stay together when they have the time.

His shirts are blinding, and the ties—when he wears them—never match, but his husband doesn't mind beyond the usual moaning and grieving over something called 'taste'.

He has many, many secrets.

In truth, he _is_ a dangerous man.

But there are many times when he doesn't want to be.

* * *

The end. Not too bad, though, right? Oh and a little translation, in case you were wondering. The French translates to: "No! Oh no! Help! Help, please! Oh God, Ar-"

Please review!


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